


In Which Bro Strider Has Found His Match

by temporalDecay



Series: Tumblr Porn Prompt Fics [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Light Dom/sub, M/M, Nook Worship, Nooks, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 13:27:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For my tumblr porn drive.</p><p><em>Any human/troll pairing: Trolls don't do penetration, it's "unnatural" for them. Either the troll learns to like it, or the human gets creative. Bonus round: no tentadicks, all trolls have are nooks.</em> -- Anon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Bro Strider Has Found His Match

You like weird shit. 

You made peace with that fact a couple decades ago. You like weird shit, you realized, nodded wisely and never looked back. It’s served you well, all things considered, to not let yourself be cowered by what you might or might not like. You made a fortune from the weird shit you like, one for each. 

And now there’s this guy, who’s not even a guy, so much as an alien mountain of muscles and sweat, who happens to like the same weird shit you do. Almost. Close enough to make you grin and leer and holler hallelujah. You study the gentle slope of his spine as he buries his face into his arms, hair falling every each way, while he keeps his ass up, knees spread wider than his shoulders in a posture that should be hard to maintain, but that he almost always assumes without even needing to be prompted. You take a swing of your beer and take another moment to appreciate the fact you have your horny, needy, alien not-exactly-boyfriend-but-close-enough presenting like a pro on the low table in your living room. 

You take another moment to appreciate the fact that being you is fucking amazing. 

“Can’t hear you, dude,” you drawl, the precise note of amusement hiding behind layers and layers of feigned disinterest that you know hits him like a ton of bricks. “Gotta speak louder, babe.” 

Shivers wreck his frame. You can and have made love to that frame in exquisite detail. He’s wide and thick and solid, and yes, the first thing you did, after the first time, was bounce a fucking penny off him. You bounced a fucking zillion pennies off him. And he just sat there, naked and bewildered and took your word for it when you said it was a goddamn human mating ritual. 

Fucker bounced a penny off your ass, the next time you reduced him to a puddle of sweat and weird as fuck alien blue cum on your bed. 

It left a scar. 

That was about the same time you decided you were going to keep him and put a fucking sword through anyone who didn’t like it. 

“I… please,” he whines, quiet and heartfelt, in a tone that somehow always manages to drill itself into your groin. “Please, defile me. Use me. Please yourself with me. _Sir_.” 

You lose it at sir. You always lose it at sir. And he knows it. You take another swing of your beer before you press the still chilled bottle right between his legs. The sound he makes is motherfucking _poetry_. The muscles of his back ripple and he just barely keeps himself from slamming his hips back. That’d probably shatter your poor beer bottle into dust, and you can’t have that. You pull the bottle away and lean in to press your lips on his perineum. He’s got a ludicrous name for that – he’s got a ludicrous name for _everything_ – but you once told him that if it looked like a duck and quacked like a duck and tasted like a duck, it was probably a fucking duck. You’re pretty sure he didn’t understand the meaning of the words, but he didn’t protest your habit to rename bits and pieces of his body to suit your tastes. You’re pretty sure he likes it, considering how wet he gets, when you go on a fantastic tirade right against his ear in the middle of rocking his world off axis. 

“Sure,” you drawl, making sure your lips press against his skin while you talk, perhaps a hint of tongue. “Could always use a hole to fuck.” 

He’s sweating like a deluge. You have your nose up his fucking ass and despite the fact you cleaned and prepped him yourself, all you can smell is the thick, heavy musk of his sweat. You always prep and clean him yourself, because he’s clumsy when he’s nervous and he breaks things when he tries on his own. It gets you hot, anyway, to nudge him around and get him ready for all the things you’ve already planned to do to him. Pretty much everything about him gets you hot, though. His sweat is thick – thicker than yours, not that you’ll ever come close to sweating as hard as he does – and you like the way it tastes. He sobs when you lick it off his skin, with an air of desperation that sinks like hooks into your insides and makes you want to wrap him in a giant fucking orange banner that says “Exclusive Property of Bro Strider, Touch Him and Die”, but you try to not let it show too much. Might scare the poor bastard away and then what would you do? 

It’s not like he really needs you to stand up for him. He’s four feet taller than you are, built on scale. He’s a looming, monstrous thing, for all he’s a docile and wanton under your hands. He fucks with your brain, the way he’s built and the way he talks and moves, and how he’s very much _not_ a man, for all he almost looks the part. He’s an alien. He knows exactly jackshit about human culture or human customs or human _anything_ and it shows in the way he gracefully smashes through any kind of expectation you might have had. He makes you stumble on a few you hadn’t even _known_ you had. You wonder if that counts as a fetish on its own, but you’re pretty sure you don’t really give a fuck about any other of Dave’s weird alien friends. 

Just him. 

Just perfect. 

“Please,” he croaks again, snapping you out of your little mental tangent, his voice low and pleading, “sir, please. Fuck me, use me… I—“ 

You slide your tongue down, away from his ass to the edge of his nook. You don’t even really touch the slit, proper, but he’s already keening helplessly in surrender. The hard plates covering the engorged blue lips are fully retracted and you can see the small bumps above the tip of his entrance, fat with the super magical blue alien cum you like smearing all over everything you own, but specially your skin. 

“Is that what you want?” You demand, voice rough even as the finger that traces the length of his nook is almost featherlike. “My cock all the way up your hungry alien pussy?” He arches his back, the angle defying human logic, as if to confirm the fact that he’s very much not human. “C’mon, babe, drip messily all over my hand for yes.” The point is moot, considering he’s been steadily dripping for a while, now. He sobs into his arms and you see the muscles shift and tense under his skin. “Yeah, that’s a good fucking _mare_. Shit be beautiful.” 

Your continue to work your fingers against the drenched folds of skin and almost raw nerve endings, but the truth is you’re not going to fuck his hungry alien pussy because it might be hungry and alien but it’s not a _pussy_. You’ve done your homework and researched the possibility. You sat him on the kitchen counter once, put on latex gloves and went to town with the whole exploring thing. He’s just not made to be penetrated, which might have something to do with the fact trolls have nothing to penetrate _with_. Your cock would, ironic bragging aside, break him. And not in the fun way that’d make him come crawling back to you, no, but the kind of shitty, terrible way that you refuse to let your partners experience in your bed. 

He likes the fantasy, though. 

Wanting to be fucked the human way is part of the laundry list of weird shit he likes, and you’re not one to deny his fantasies to such a cutie. You use your fingers to delicately spread the folds, just so the wet skin can feel your breath on it. Rather than your tongue, you pull a smuppet the size of your palm from your sylladex. The nose slides in easily, thicker than your fingers but not even close to being longer. 

He makes the loud, kamikaze cricket screech thing and you haven’t even turned the vibrator on. 

Then you _do_ turn it on and he goes full on _Evangelion_ cicada concert on steroids and you’re half expecting Shinji fucking Ikari to pop up somewhere in the background, sobbing about his daddy issues. 

Stranger things have happened to you. 

Instead, you sit back, drink your beer and watch him writhe for a while. 

It’s going to be a fucking amazing – and _long_ – night. 

**Author's Note:**

> I have officially lost control of my life.


End file.
